


Getting Warmer

by often_adamanta



Series: Thermal Energy [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Food, Future Fic, Gen, Not Beta Read, POV Character of Color, Platonic Cuddling, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 08:39:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8438899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/often_adamanta/pseuds/often_adamanta
Summary: Nothing much comes of the whole almost-dying-by-hypothermia thing. At least he thinks so until Bucky ambushes him in the kitchen of his apartment while he’s eating yogurt.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This won't make much sense if you don't read the first story in the series!

Nothing much comes of the whole almost-dying-by-hypothermia thing. Sam’s fine beyond a bit of frostnip and honestly is more concerned about his wings. Steve buys him a tacky, bright orange life jacket and very solemnly cautions him against crash landing in water, the giant hypocrite. Natasha changes his call sign to Penguin for an entire mission, looking so amused that he can’t even get mad, and that’s that.

At least he thinks so until Bucky ambushes him in the kitchen of his apartment while he’s eating yogurt.

To be fair to Bucky, it’s not so much an ambush as a really stealthy arrival. 

To be fair to _Sam_ , the doors are all locked and, as far as he’d known, both Bucky and Natasha were out of the country. He should have known better than to let his guard down though.

Somewhere Natasha is judging him, and she doesn’t know why. 

Sam manages to swallow his mouthful of yogurt without choking to death or having a heart attack and says, “Hey, man,” with at least a little dignity, so he’s counting this one as a win. 

Bucky nods, his expression closer to blank than the usual irritability. Sam wonders if this is his version of friendly and decides to go with it. 

“Steve’s at a thing,” he says, vague because he doesn’t keep up with Steve’s social calendar, and when that doesn’t get a reaction, adds, “Did you need something?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and then the corners of his mouth draw in a bit, as if wishing he could take the word back. 

Sam eats another spoonful of yogurt while he waits for more information. Then he eats another. Eventually he gives up and says, “You gonna tell me what, or should we try charades?” 

Bucky slips back into his more typical annoyed expression for a second, and then his entire face changes, a small smile forming as his shoulders drop into something loose and easy. Sam’s seen him use this on marks and hapless civilians, on scared kids, and once, a lost dog, but he’s never seen it directed at him. 

“That’s creepy as fuck, man,” Sam says before Bucky has a chance to feed him whatever line of bullshit he was no doubt working toward. 

Like a light switch, Bucky’s back to his usual self and scowling. Sam had never thought he’d be _relieved_ to have Bucky scowl at him, but here they are. 

Bucky’s anger at least loosens his tongue, because he asks, “Will you sleep with me again?” in a tone that matches his scowl. 

Sam’s shocked enough that he actually says the first thing that pops into his head, namely, “What kind of boy do you think I am? You’ve gotta buy me dinner first.” 

Bucky’s expression sours, and they stare at each other for a few beats before he whips around and leaves the kitchen as silently as he arrived. It’s pretty impressive given that his body language is all stomped feet and slammed doors, like he’s throwing the quietest possible tantrum.

Sam looks down at his yogurt and scrapes the side of the container. “What just happened?” he asks himself when it’s clear that Bucky has left for good, even though he hadn’t heard the front door or the beep of the alarm. 

His empty kitchen holds no answers. He shrugs and finishes his yogurt. 

*

He’s not sure what surprises him more: that Bucky comes back, or that he actually knocks on the door and waits for Sam to open it. 

Sam stares mutely, shocked speechless for the third time that day, and Bucky shoves a huge bag of Chinese takeout at him. 

“Uh,” Sam says, “You know I was kidding about buying me dinner, right?” 

Bucky glares at him and keeps holding out the bag until Sam steps back and motions him inside. 

Bucky heads straight for the kitchen, and Sam follows, pausing at the refrigerator to grab two beers. He sets them down next to where Bucky is pulling out a multitude of white takeout boxes. Bucky rolls his eyes but uses his metal hand to pop the caps off the beer, sliding the first bottle back toward Sam and taking a drink from the other. 

“Hey, did you order beef lo mein?” Sam asks, and a carton is shoved toward him before he even finishes the question. “Thanks, man.” 

Sam grabs chops sticks and goes over to the couch where he has a football game on, more for background noise than any real interest, but it’ll be easier to look at the screen while they eat. Someone fails to make a third down conversion as Bucky joins him, sitting at the opposite end of the sofa. 

He’s not sure that they’ve ever spent any down time together alone. Steve’s always around, and Natasha joins them more often than not. Sam had never thought about what it’d be like, but it’s totally fine, or it would be if Bucky would stop giving him looks that Sam can feel even if Bucky’s eyes are firmly fixed on the television every time Sam turns. 

Sam picks out a piece of beef and watches Bucky pointedly as he chews. Bucky’s shoulders grow more and more tight until he finally looks at Sam and frowns. 

“Something scaring you, Barnes?” Sam smirks.

“Yeah,” Buck says, tone closer to the dry sarcasm he uses with Steve than the curt blandness Sam usual gets, much to Sam’s surprise, “I’m waiting for you to try and get me to talk about my feelings or whatever.” 

Sam snorts. “That’s so far above my pay grade.” He thinks about it for a minute, Bucky in tactical gear stretched out on one of those ridiculous therapy couches they show in movies and glaring at him while he asks leading questions, and has to shove some noodles in his mouth to keep from laughing. 

Bucky doesn’t look reassured, so when Sam finishes chewing, he says, “Seriously. I just have one question.” Sam actually has a million questions, but there’s only one he’s going to ask.

Bucky nods and braces himself as if anticipating a hit. 

“Just to be absolutely clear, you weren’t using sleep as a euphemism, right?” Sam asks. 

Bucky blinks, then blinks again. And again. His head actually tilts a little, as if that was so far from what he expected that he’s having to reorient himself. 

“Like, nap buddies is cool,” Sam continues, “But if this is some sideways attempt to get in my pants, we’re gonna have a problem.” 

“Just nap buddies,” Bucky agrees firmly, and then looks ever so faintly amused. “I’m trying to get into your bed, not your pants.” 

“That’s what I thought,” Sam says, “But people tend to think those are the same thing, so I had to check.” 

Bucky nods and then juggles his takeout so that he can have another sip of beer. 

Sam itches to know what Bucky thought he was going to ask, what was getting him so wound up, but it’s probably something really depressing and none of his business anyway, so Sam lets it go. Instead he says, “I didn’t think you slept much that night.” He takes a drink of his own beer. “Or, like, at all.”

“I didn’t,” Bucky says, primly, “It was a mission.” He adjusts his grip on the chopsticks and mutters, hardly loud enough to hear, “Felt like maybe I could, though.”

Sam hums and eats his lo mein and doesn’t push. 

When they’re finished and Bucky’s picking off the label of his empty beer bottle, Sam takes pity on them both and doesn’t try to draw out the evening despite the early hour. The large amount of leftovers go into the fridge, most likely to be hoovered up by Steve before Sam gets another crack at them, and then Sam leads Bucky into his bedroom. 

Bucky’s never been in there before - that Sam knows about, anyway - and they’re about to crawl into bed together. It’s weird. Bucky’s face has gone still again, maybe feeling it, too, so Sam walks over to his dresser casually, as if it’s no big deal, and says, “Nothing with a trigger in bed.” 

Bucky gives him a speaking look, which is better than the way he was shutting down, but Sam still takes exception to it. 

“Don’t you look at me like that,” Sam says, “I didn’t say no weapons, did I? I said no triggers. If I can set it off in some way, then I don’t want it in my bed. And that goes triple for explosives.” 

It seems to be an acceptable rule, because Bucky sits down in the chair by the door and starts to unlace his boots. 

Sam’s already wearing comfortable clothes suitable for his day around the house, but he changes into a soft tshirt and loose running shorts. His skin breaks out in goosebumps in the chill air of his bedroom, but he remembers how hot Bucky was last time. 

Bucky takes off his jacket and carefully stows two or three guns, Sam’s not counting, and takes off his jeans as well. He’s wearing thermals like the ones he’d had on last time under his tactical gear, and Sam’s struck, suddenly, by how much Bucky must want this. He prepared for it and asked for it. He went out of his way to get it. The Chinese food should have clued him in, but for some reason the idea that he came over wearing underclothes he knew Sam would see really brings it home. 

Sam tries not to stare at Bucky or dwell on that idea, so he gets into bed, drawing the covers down and laying on his back in the center. Bucky joins him, hesitantly settling against Sam’s side, a far cry from the heavy weight Sam remembers. 

Then again, last time this was for Sam, an imposition Bucky could write off as mission critical. This is not that. 

Sam pulls the covers over them both and leans against Bucky carelessly until Bucky huffs and rearranges them so that he’s mostly on top of Sam. 

It’s much better this time, even beyond the obvious fact that no one is currently suffering from hypothermia. Sam’s sheets are clean and smell like his familiar brand of laundry detergent, and his pillows actually support his head. He’s as sure as he can ever be these days that Hydra or whoever isn’t going to bust down the door, and Bucky seems to be making a concerted effort to relax. 

Even if he doesn’t manage to fall asleep, Sam’s pretty sure this is good for him. Good that he asked, and good that he’s letting someone close. Sam knows all about skin hunger and being too paranoid to do anything about it. 

Sam moves the arm that Bucky is basically on top of until his hand is resting on Bucky’s lower back, accidentally touching skin where Bucky’s shirt is rucked up. 

Bucky hisses. “Shouldn’t have been so worried last time,” he says, “I guess your hands are always that cold.” 

“You were worried?” Sam asks, teasing. 

Bucky grumbles and tucks his nose into Sam’s collarbone. He’s putting off an outrageous amount of heat, just like Sam expected. 

Sam isn’t exactly tired, but he’s comfortable and warm, and he slowly runs his hand up and down Bucky’s spine, feeling tension give way to pliable softness, and grins into the early evening darkness as Bucky slips closer and closer toward sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Steve's actual superpower is keeping a straight face while telling other people not to do dangerous and reckless things.


End file.
